Chapter 179: Behind the church doors 3
The gala night arrived like a fever dream.
The theater glittered: chandeliers blazing, champagne flowing, patrons in diamonds and tuxedos pretending they had come for art instead of status. Backstage smelled of rosin, sweat, and panic. The new Salome was bold even by this company’s standards: sheer costumes, explicit choreography, a seven-veil drop that left the lead in little more than strategically placed gold chains and body paint. Critics were already sharpening knives.
Elena danced the title role herself tonight. The board had insisted; only the principal could carry the risk. Valeria, understudy and official cover, was dressed as the Slave: a costume that was mostly black leather straps and a collar, her back entirely bare, ass framed by two thin strips that disappeared between her cheeks. Every time she moved, the straps shifted, revealing more than they concealed.
They had not fucked in four days. Elena had decreed it. Focus, she said. Valeria had smiled like a wolf and agreed.
The pas de deux between Salome and the Slave came halfway through the first act. Onstage, under blood-red lights, Elena circled Valeria slowly, a silk veil trailing from her wrist. The choreography demanded skin on skin, hips rolling together, Valeria’s thigh sliding high between Elena’s legs until the audience gasped at how close it looked to real sex. Elena’s hands traced the leather straps, fingers slipping beneath to graze bare flesh. Valeria’s breath stuttered against her neck, hot and real.
When Elena dipped her, Valeria’s back arched impossibly, breasts thrust upward, nipples barely hidden by crossed arms. The veil fluttered to the floor. Elena’s mouth hovered a fraction from Valeria’s throat, teeth grazing the pulse point for one heartbeat longer than the music required. The orchestra swelled. The audience roared.
Backstage during the brief scene change, they did not speak. They did not need to. Valeria’s pupils were blown wide, lips parted. Elena felt her own arousal slicking the inside of her thighs beneath the gossamer costume.
Then came the summons.
A liveried usher appeared at Elena’s dressing room door, discreet and expressionless. “Madame Voss sends her compliments. She requests the pleasure of your company and the Slave’s in her private box for the remainder of the act. Champagne is poured.”
Madame Voss was the company’s most generous patron: old money, older appetites, and a reputation for collecting beautiful things. Refusal was not an option.
They were led up a hidden staircase, away from the chaos of wings and quick changes. The private box sat high above the stage, velvet curtains drawn back to reveal the performance far below like a living painting. Inside, the lights were low, the air thick with incense and the faint metallic tang of wealth.
Madame Voss greeted them with a smile that did not reach her eyes. She wore black silk and diamonds at her throat. “Exquisite,” she murmured, gaze sliding over both of them like hands. “Please. Sit. Enjoy the view you created.”
She pressed flutes of champagne into their hands, made polite conversation about phrasing and musicality, then excused herself with graceful finality. “I have calls to make. The box is yours until the interval bell. The walls are soundproof. The door locks from the inside.”
The door clicked shut. They were alone.
Valeria set her glass down untouched. She turned to Elena, eyes glittering in the half-dark.
“Four days,” she said, voice rough. “You made me wait four days.”
Elena’s pulse thundered in her ears. Below them, on stage, her cover danced the moon variation, a pale imitation. Up here, the real performance was about to begin.
Valeria moved first. She pushed Elena back onto the wide velvet chaise that faced the balcony rail, straddled her thighs, and kissed her like punishment. Teeth clashed, tongues sliding wet and desperate. Elena tasted champagne and rage and four days of denial.
Valeria’s hands were everywhere: yanking aside the fragile gold chains of Elena’s costume, palming her breasts, pinching nipples until Elena arched with a hiss. She ground down hard, leather straps rasping against Elena’s bare skin, the friction maddening.
Elena broke the kiss to bite Valeria’s neck, hard enough to bruise beneath the collar. “You wore this on purpose,” she growled against hot skin. “Walking around half-naked all night. Teasing me.”
Valeria laughed, low and filthy. “You wrote the costume notes, Elena. Don’t blame me if you can’t control yourself.”
She reached for the champagne bottle on the low table, took a long swallow straight from the neck, then tipped it over Elena’s chest. Cold bubbles fizzed across her breasts, running in rivulets down her stomach. Valeria followed the trail with her tongue, lapping greedily, sucking champagne from Elena’s nipples until Elena’s hips jerked upward involuntarily.
“Stay still,” Valeria ordered, and slid lower.
She pushed Elena’s legs wide, the remnants of the costume tearing easily under impatient fingers. Elena was drenched, swollen, aching. Valeria looked for a long moment, eyes dark with hunger, then leaned in and licked her open in one slow, possessive stroke.
Elena’s head fell back against the velvet, a strangled moan escaping. The stage below was visible between the balcony rails: dancers moving like dolls, oblivious. The danger of it, the height, the glass wall separating them from discovery, made everything sharper.
Valeria ate her like she was starving: tongue fucking deep, nose grinding against her clit, fingers digging bruises into Elena’s thighs to keep her spread. When Elena tried to reach for her, Valeria pinned her wrists to the chaise with one hand.
“Not yet,” she whispered against slick flesh. “You made me wait. Now you wait.”
She brought Elena to the edge three times, mercilessly, pulling back each time Elena’s thighs started to shake. On the fourth, Elena was sobbing with need, hips chasing Valeria’s mouth.
“Please,” she gasped. “Valeria, please—”
Valeria slid two fingers inside and curled them hard, sucking Elena’s clit at the same moment. Elena came with a cry that echoed off the soundproof walls, back bowing, champagne bottle tipping and spilling across the floor in a golden flood.
Before the tremors faded, Elena surged up, flipped their positions with the strength of desperation. Valeria landed on her back, legs splayed over the arm of the chaise, leather straps cutting into pale skin.
Elena tore at the costume: straps snapping, buckles clattering to the carpet. She exposed Valeria inch by inch until only the collar remained, stark black against flushed skin.
She grabbed the champagne bottle, still half full, and pressed the cold neck against Valeria’s entrance. Valeria’s breath hitched, eyes going wide.
“Tell me you want it,” Elena said, voice dangerous.
Valeria licked her lips. “Do it.”
Elena pushed slowly, watching the thick glass stretch her open, watching Valeria’s face contort with pleasure-pain. When it was seated deep, she twisted, fucked her with it in short, deliberate thrusts while her thumb circled Valeria’s clit.
Valeria’s hands scrabbled at the velvet, mouth open on silent screams. Elena leaned down, bit her nipple hard, and increased the pace. The bottle glistened with Valeria’s arousal, sliding easier with every stroke.
“Come on it,” Elena whispered against her breast. “Show me how filthy you are.”
Valeria shattered, body seizing, a gush of wetness coating Elena’s hand and the bottle neck. Elena kept fucking her through it, drawing out every aftershock until Valeria was limp and whimpering.
Only then did Elena pull the bottle free and straddle Valeria’s thigh, grinding down hard. She was close again already, the sight of Valeria wrecked beneath her pushing her over. Valeria’s hands gripped her hips, guiding the rhythm, nails raking red lines.
They rocked together frantically, mouths fused, chasing the second peak. When it hit, it hit them both: Elena grinding down as Valeria arched up, their cries muffled against each other’s lips.
Afterward, they lay tangled on the spilled champagne chaise, breathing hard, skin cooling. Far below, the act was ending; applause thundered like distant rain.
Valeria traced a lazy circle around Elena’s navel. “Madame Voss will smell us on the velvet for months.”
Elena huffed a laugh, surprising herself. “She’ll probably frame it.”
The interval bell chimed softly through hidden speakers. They had minutes to return to the world that thought it owned them.
Valeria sat up, reached for the ruined scraps of costume. “Second act,” she said, voice husky. “You still have to dance the head on the platter.”
Elena stood, legs shaky, and pulled Valeria in for one last bruising kiss.
“Then let’s give them something to remember,” she said against swollen lips.
They slipped out separately, descending different stairs, reentering the chaos of quick changes and painted smiles. No one noticed the marks beneath collars, the tremor in famous hands, the scent of sex clinging to their skin like perfume.
Onstage, when Salome finally kissed the severed head, Elena’s tongue lingered longer than rehearsal had ever allowed.
In the private box above, empty now, the velvet chaise bore dark stains and the faint imprint of two bodies that had burned the house down without striking a single match.